


the great pretender

by allsovacant



Series: something to cry on [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Johnlock Roulette, Light Angst, Starts with Sherlock leaving the wedding and ends with the feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-10 01:52:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15939332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant
Summary: "I'm wearing my heart like a crownPretending that you're.... still around,"—The Great Pretender, The Platters (Buck Ram, 1955)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Unbeta'ed for the love of mistakes._

A round of applause for the newly wed—  
A tell-tale whispering of childhood misadventures—  
An impromptu sing and dance from some of the drunken guests that elicits another round of applause from the women—

A lone figure pushed open the glass doors, turning his coat collar up against the chill of the London night. 

He raises his hand to hail a cab, but halfway instead, a black vehicle stops in the curb in front of him. He sighs heavily as he recognized the car. His hand pauses on the car's door as he glances back at the well-lit blurry crowded room and catches a glimpse of that achingly familiar warm smile from the man of the hour in a dashing black tuxedo. Those pair of blue eyes, twinkling against the bokeh of lights, accenting it even more. Only that smile wasn't directed to him—but to the beautiful blonde lady in a cream coloured fine sequined dress beside the man. Elbows locked with each other, fingers entwined, now laughing heartily from something definitely ordinary, intelligence reducing gossip from a bunch of people in front of the couple.

He turns away ignoring the crawling pain inside his chest and shuts himself inside the car.

________

Sherlock stood in front of the door of 221 and stares at the knocker. 

It was still in a crooked position.  
What a marvel.  
It's like he could imagine seeing John's smirking face and hearing his low voice telling him, _"No git. You will never forget me. I made sure of that. And here's the first reminder."_

Sherlock mocks a laugh.  
_Well . . . You succeeded._ Sherlock answers to the John on his thoughts. He closes his eyes to calm the brewing ache from his chest ... again. 

But instead of relief he was rewarded of the memories when he and John first met.  
Meeting the soldier, the army doctor, the bravest man he had ever known. The man who saved his life a countless times. The man who ran with him throughout London. The man who made its way to his heart in a pull of a trigger. The man he left to grieve (but with a valid reason). And now that man, _his man_ was now married and _moved on_. 

In a jiff, he opens his eyes blinking away the blur of forming tears.

 _Feelings._ Mycroft told him once that it won't do him any good. And now he's really lost. The battle has been won by ... a woman.

He unlocks the door and pushes it, stepping his way inside. He then lets the door close by itself as he proceed up the stairs of flat B.

The flat as he left it earlier was the same.  
But inside his head, it wasn't. It will never be the same. No giggling John. No angry John. No John Watson that bullies him on eating, sleeping. The flat was now just a flat. It was no longer home. It no longer _felt_ like home.

Shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the rack, he removes his gloves then throws it over the breakfast table. He goes to the kitchen to make himself tea. Trying hard to shut off his mind of imagining John Watson standing on the kitchen sink, waiting for the kettle to boil.

________

With tea on hand, he walks to the living room, leaving the teacup on the coffee table. He looks down at the swirling smoke of chamomile floating, mixing with the stale air of the flat. It was still hot. If John was the one who made it, he could drink it right away. John knows how Sherlock likes his tea. But John isn't here anymore. He doesn't live here anymore.

Frustration eats Sherlock inside.  
He huffs reaching for his phone, opens the Messaging app and types a short message:

_I want tea. Make me tea.  
—SH_

Then he flings himself to the couch, his thumb finds the intended contact and clicks the send button. Sherlock's heart felt like it wanted to claw off his chest. A ping from his phone startles him as it meant it could be a reply. He checks the message.

_Brother mine, what do you think you are doing?  
—MH_

His eyes narrows as he looks up to one of the corners of the bookshelf with a smug look on his face, then he types a reply.

_Piss off, Mycroft.  
—SH_

_What a joy—I believe I have to be the one to tell you that Mr. and Mrs. Watson has changed their personal numbers already. As I was... informed. Obviously, no one will reply from their old number. Do you want me to send you their new contacts?  
—MH_

Sherlock snorts. He reaches for the union jack throw pillow then throws it on the direction of the shelf. An old ship figure inside a bottle crashes to the floor, together with a little bug as big as a button.

He tries again. 

_John, can you come here?  
—SH_

Demanding. He deletes it again.

_John...I know it's not a good time. I know you just been married but_

Delete.

_John... I just wanted to_

Delete.

_John, are you still awake?_

_Obviously, Sherlock. It's my honeymoon night!_  
The John on his mind answers. Sherlock flinches. Delete.

Sherlock thought hard of what to say. He breathes in deeply. Heavily as he comes on the thought of it's now or never. And then he starts to type the longest text message he had ever sent to John in their whole acquaintance. _Message Sent_. Then he sends another text message to Mycroft.

_Packing. Sussex. In an hour.  
—SH_

_If you must.  
—MH_

Sherlock sighs as he lazily walks to his bedroom, packs his clothes in a suitcase and then his important personals. He writes a letter to Mrs. Hudson and walks out of his bedroom bringing his suitcase to the door. Next his violin case, the music sheets, John's journal, his gloves and his coat. Sherlock carries all of these things outside the door and gives a long last look of the flat he had called home with John Watson in it. And with a curt nod, he closes the door and locks the memories inside the B flat forever.

His cup of tea, forgotten and cold.

Meanwhile, a graceful tall figure puts his luggage on the boot of the black car in front of the 221 apartment. He was about to go inside when he talks to the driver, asking to wait for a jiff. Then he goes in front of the 221 apartment door and sets the door knob in a crooked position. Smiling to himself, he gets inside the car as the clock tower indicates the midnight hour.

_____


	2. Chapter 2

It was four in the morning when John suddenly wokes up with a jolt. His wife Mary sleeping soundly, lying beside him. They're both naked from the night's event. He bends down and kisses her forehead then he gets up to relieve himself on the loo. 

It was four fifteen in the morning when John retrieves his phone from the coffee table and finally able to notice Sherlock's text messages. He frowns as he remembers his best friend and best man leaving early halfway of the reception. But he reads the messages anyway, one was Sherlock asking him for a tea that made him laugh and the other started with an _apologise_. Amused and curious at the same time to what it says, he puts a robe on, makes himself tea and walks to the living room with his phone and tea on his hands. He then sits on the sofa and begins to read.

 _INBOX_  
SH: 11:34PM  
___________  
John,

I apologise for my manners earlier. Leaving without saying goodbye. It was never my intention to. But its just, I couldn't really say it. Even until now. And I deduce that you'll call me a coward for not speaking of what I am about to say. And that is, _I am... in love with you, John Watson._ I have always been. Bit of a shock wasn't it? But I also deduce that you'll tell me that I am brilliant for being able to hide it. But really, it was difficult. It was so hard. If it was a case, it was a nine. It was so hard to pretend John. That you don't alarm me. That my feelings are nothing. A remnant of a broken past. But John you had me shaking on my knees. Everytime our eyes meet when we were close, I've tried hard to devoid my face with reactions. I've tried hard to stop breathing, so I wouldn't be able to smell you. How glorious your smell is—Your aftershave, your musk, your bodywash, earl grey tea— _home_. It makes me dizzy. That I'm afraid I might fall in your strong arms. And if that happens I don't think I would be able to let go. And even if it will forever hunt me, how your arms would feel around me. How your lips would feel against mine—I hope you wouldn't think low of me if I tell you the truth that I've relieved myself from those thoughts and afterwards I'd find tears in my eyes. 

When our faces were almost inches away from each other I tried hard not to blink, so you would look away. You always look away. Why? I never knew. And then when you smile, your eyes tell me what I've been dreaming of. And it makes it even so hard. But I remember them all, John. I have them in my mind palace. In the five years that we were together, I have memorised what I know about you. But even on the last weeks that you were staying with me, you've still shown me something new about you. You are full of surprises John Watson. And I am honoured to be your best friend. And I am happy that you are happy. You have found the love that you've been waiting for. As for me, I have found it—and it was _you_. It will _always_ be you.

One more thing, the last time that me and Moriarty talked, he told me that I never felt pain. Well he's wrong John. And I have proved it when I jumped off that roof to save you and the others from his snipers. It was so painful when I heard your broken voice asking for me. And all I could do was lie on the pavement still. _I am so sorry for everything that I have done to hurt you._ But believe me when I say that I thought I was only loving you, John. I never thought I was hurting you in the process. But now you wouldn't have to worry. I am leaving. And you will never be left alone. Mary had you on your worst, she deserves your best. And that is all I want for you both.

All my life I was a broken man, and then you come along and you're able to put me back together. I was lost and you've found me. You have saved me from myself for so many times. And for that I am grateful. More than grateful. I love you so much, John Watson. 

More than those words could say.  
More than those words could mean.  
And more than those words could make you feel. 

I love you, now and always.

Yours,  
William Sherlock Scott Holmes

________

John stood up slowly and walks quietly to their bedroom. He leaves a note to Mary and dresses in his usual jumper and trousers, gets his jacket and sets off to Baker Street, with the first rays of sunlight greeting him.

________

When John Watson reaches 221B an hour later, he unlocks the door with his spare key and turns the knob to be greeted by the familiar view of the living room. The surge of memories that flashed before him as he steps inside quietly almost brought him to tears. He inhales the familiar smell of the flat; old pages of books, burnt cigarette, laundry detergent, spoilt milk, antiseptic, the crisp smell of the London air blowing from the kitchen window, a hint of aftershave, chamomile tea, toothpaste, peppermint, that smell he'll always be familiar, _of Sherlock's._ And that same moment, it was then that his gaze finds an abandoned teacup on the coffee table. Slowly, he sits on his familiar arm chair and drinks it. Imagining Sherlock when he was making it in the kitchen. And when the cold tea touches his tongue and caresses his throat, he chokes a sob. Because it tastes just like how Sherlock would make _his_ tea. Was Sherlock thinking of him when he's making the tea? Was it the reason why it was in favour of his taste? And that's the time John Watson finally lets his tears flow uncontrollably as the muffled words leaves his mouth.

_'I love you too, you git.'_

**Author's Note:**

> the title came from the popular The Platters' song of the same title. Released in 1955. Vocals by Tom Williams and words and music by Buck Ram. The single with the B-side 'I'm Just A Dancing Partner' reached the number one position on both the R&B and pop charts in 1956. It also reached the UK charts peaking at number 5.
> 
> *insert A/N: too much _johnlock_ feels!
> 
> Always craving for Martin Freeman's biceps and your kudos, insights and comments. Lemme know! Thank you so much! 
> 
> (Remembers my FLUFF WIP) *dies*


End file.
